


now look at what you just saw, this is what you live for (i’m a motherfucking monster)

by oncewewerezombies, Snailman



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus (Homestuck), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gore, Illustrations, Narcissism, Partner Betrayal, Pre-Canon, Prophecy, Self-Mutilation, Subjuggulators, Toxic Relationship, autocannibalism, beforan highblood culture, the Lord of Double Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28006005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailman/pseuds/Snailman
Summary: The Prince atones; even if something is called for by the Mirthful Messiahs, a subjugglator must not act against his quadrants.Or, Kurloz chews out his own tongue and eats it, that it may not speak wicked untruths no more.
Relationships: Meulin Leijon/Kurloz Makara, Mituna Captor & Kurloz Makara
Kudos: 20
Collections: Dancestor Mini Bang 2020





	now look at what you just saw, this is what you live for (i’m a motherfucking monster)

The paths that have led you to this point are many and varied, and yet you know that they have all been the right ones. You are BLESSED by the Messiahs Themselves, you are POSSESSED with Their Holy Words and you know what you have to do. What is needed from you has always been obvious and clear, and you have been hatched ready to destroy. You have known what would happen, more or less. You’d been forewarned of the Heiress’ abscondment to the moon, the little weaksauce bitch that she is. All bark, no fucking BITE. There are these dreams you have, times when the Messiahs speak to you and you have been well fucking warned and enlightened of what is to come. You’d known enough, emotherfuckingnough.

You know what your role motherfucking is.

You know what you are meant to do, and will need to be done. Bloody hands is the least you can expect, but what the fuck else can you expect from gods. You do what they can’t. You are where they can’t manifest. You are grievous fleshbound reality where they are mythical imagos. You a motherfucking righteous ninja, you know your duty and you are _delighted_ to do it. For once, your faith will be answered. For once, your faith will be fulfilled. There’s nothing good in the Church you’ve found yourself hatched to; you’ve always known that there was better, cleaner prophecy for you to cleave to.

And you’d found it. Or it had found you.

However the motherfucking route and the irrelevant fucking bullshittery that had brought you to this point, here you are and you are WILLING, ready and able to serve. You’ve done your duty as you need to. You’ve hauled your server player up to the Medium, and made your way there as well. Until everyone had made it into the Game, which had been the first motherfucking step. And one of the ones most fraught with peril, but all twelve of you had stood where you were needed. 

It’s how you know you’re on the right path. That you know that you’re still the True Disciple of the Lord of Space. And yet, after you, there will be another. A better. There will be more. You will only be a helpmeet, a midwife to these horrendous birthings and happenings.

You’re down with that, motherfucker. You’re cool. Ain’t the kind of righteous ninja that’s gonna kick up a fuss about not being the main star. You’ve always preferred the shadows anyway, don’t want any motherfucker to get a good look at you.

When you sleep, you dream.

You dream of so many motherfucking things. You dream of the universe ending, of a vast frog floating amongst space, its distended rounded belly a nebula, a universe. You dream of purple cities and golden chains, of strange shell-covered creatures murdering and plotting. For some motherfucking unknown reason, you dream of stickball spheres, clicking and clacking and spinning to show their numbers and their multicoloured nature of rings and solids as they roll across an endless, ever expanding expanse of green felt.

You don’t see no motherfucking harm in them. You’ve come to reckon as you’re a prophet of sorts, and so you dream and you motherfucking SEE, and that’s just how it is. It’s your truth, even if you know there ain’t no motherfucker who’s gonna understand it. You’ve filled two quadrants and you still motherfucking don’t feel full. You’re pretty fucking sure that filling the last two won’t help you either, not that you see any motherfucker on the horizon that would fill the gaps.

You are dreaming.

You are drifting.

You’re curled up on a comfortslab on your own world of clowns and quietnesses, sweet kittybitch in your arms and you see oh you see. You see SO FUCKING MUCH. You feel your spine _snap_ , your whole body tense as you arch, back in that moment where you’d started. Digging your claws into whatever you can reach - the platform - your own flesh - _Meulin_ oh fuck _Meulin_ -

No matter what else, you pity her. You motherfucking _pity_ her. Who the fuck could not? She’s almost simple, stupid and endearing with how she only cares about stories .and nonsense. You can let her talk and talk, and it just washes over you like waves, lulling you to peace with the utter motherfucking banality of it. It’s like listening to the ocean or some shit, except you can fuck Meulin.

And motherfucker, don’t you just. Ain’t that what a caste like hers is for, compared to the colour of yours? Mituna is the same and damn, you pity him pale as bones, pale as fangs. Pale as the motherfucking celestial lights dotting the skies. But he’s beneath you, and they’re both meant to lift you up and you motherfucking know it. You’re not sure what came first, the pity or the knowing of what they would be for you, what they would do for you and your Lord, and you don’t care to know. There are only a few weaknesses you will allow yourself, and this is one of them.

You SEE what the Lord means for you.

You SEE what the Lord means for you motherfucking _all_ , righteous, heretic and non-believer _all_.

And you open your maw, lips peeling back from your fangs and you -

_HONK_

In your mind’s eye, your delirium, you see the sacred HONK ascending from your mouth to the heavens, straight up to Shangri Lol in a column of light. Something sacred, insubstantial. Celestial. Shoulders, heels, pressed to the slumberplatform and nary an inch of you touching its surface between. For a moment, endless, everything is beautiful clarity. You see, you know, you feel the radiant gaze of Him, your Lord, slither across you like a benediction. Like a tasting tongue. You are KNOWN and you are FOUND WORTHY, and it is all you have ever wanted in all your fucking life.

You wake to wailing and blood.

You wake to Meulin making terrible noises, and her auricular clots bleeding green, even as you can still feel the Divine in your chirpsack like an ember. The sound of your reckoning is caught in your throat, but you’re suddenly adrift. You don’t know what to do with it. 

The throbbing enormity of the HONK is nothing you can quell. You flail, finding Meulin on one side of you and the slumberplatform’s softness to the other. Your body is spasming with the POWER of what you’ve found and it’s too much for any mortal husk to contain, it keeps spilling out, and Meulin keeps on _screaming_.

You can’t stop your maw for the life of you, you can feel the stretch in your jaws, your head, everything in you as the HONK keeps pealing forth like a bell from somewhere beyond reality. By the time it stops, you are gagging for breath and Meulin is gasping, whimpering, bleeding. You shake her shoulder, you speak softly to her of your pity. She shakes her head and wails softly, and shudders again.

You hold her close, and try to comfort her while thinking uneasy on the blood pearling from the inside of her auricular clots. Running down her neck, into her soft curls of hair. You hug her close, and all you can smell is blood. It even drowns out the scent of the hellrighteous merrymaking you’d been doing before going to sleep, that dank smell of sweat, slurry and nip. There’s nothing to be done for the moment so you both hole up and sleep until you have to wake again.

In the gloaming of twilight, it’s more obvious what harm and damage your communion with the Lord has done (what you have done). Your pretty kittybitch is deaf, she hears your words no more. She hears nothing at all of the mundus around her. You hug her close and kiss her as she sobs and howls, all discordant and with no knowledge of how loud she is. How agonizing it is to your own listening sponges. You smooth your touchstubs through her hair and hum to her, as though she can hear you and you close your oculars firm as you think. 

Even if the Lord had given you the HONK, it’s your doing that has hurt your matesprit. It was your voice that has harmed your pitypusher, your sweetest pumping organ. Your flushest red.

It’s something you need to answer for.

You manage to get Meulin to sleep and slumber with a little motherfucking chemical assistance, restful and gone before you disengage yourself from the tangle of limbs. You wander out into the world of the Game, sundered and strange as it is. There are times when you’ve had to fight, times you’ve struggled but you and Meulin had withfuckingdrawn from the Heiress’ schemes a while ago just to love, and fuck and smoke. Get your motherfucking groove on. You’d had a deeper purpose, of course, something you hadn’t wanted anyone not tied sure to you to know about but now you have achieved it.

You’ve triumphed and you’ve sinned. You’ve enjoyed your triumph, knowing that you wouldn’t have the full of it until it bloomed fullfold, but now you are ready to answer for your sinning.

Sitting on the grass and looking up at the sky with its fakeyfake clouds that show no signs of prophecy to such as you, you sigh to yourself and let yourself have a moment to think of all the things you’ve said and could have had to say. You allow yourself one moment of sorrow (you’re motherfucking WEAK), and then you pull your tongue out of your maw with the pinch of twain of your claws. Without thinking more on it, you bite down. As hard and fierce as you can, and even as your oculars swim and your weak fucking husk tries to preserve itself from harm, you _chew_ and you _gnaw_ and you _BITE_.

Your maw floods with the rank taste of your own blood, your own flesh and you have to swallow to keep on chewing, to keep from drowning. It coats your choketunnel, and you chew and chew and chew. It seems to take formotherfuckingever to get through all the muscle of your flavourslab. 

It’s sweet, sweet agony and it’s nothing more than what you FUCKING DESERVE for doing what you’ve done. Maybe you ain’t had all that much choice about it, maybe it was always fated to be but that don’t mean shit. You’ve harmed Meulin without meaning to, harmed her proper and sore. If she can’t hear, then you won’t speak.

With your maw filled, overflowing with blood and having holy colour dripping down your chest from your wound, you tilt your head back. And by the Lord of Double Death, you open your mouth wide and drop your quadrant-harming lingualslab into the hollowed out cavern of your hungertrap, and you _motherfucking swallow_. 

Just like a motherfucking delicious snot-bivalve. Motherfucker, you ain’t never had the patience for the kind of chow a ninja like you should have been accustomed to, and swallowing your own tongue is a struggle and a fight in its own right. You gag, and choke and sourly, bitterly, YOU CHOKE THAT MOTHERFUCKER DOWN. It’s what you deserve. It’s what something like you motherfucking _gets_.

With your tongue resting uneasy in your hungersack and blood flowing every which way, you stagger your way inside your hive and make your way to the nutritional plateau, and the block already laid out with what else you need. If you sob, if your oculars exude fragments of dew, you ignore it. There is more for you to do _yet_. 

The thread waits you. The needle. And the hot iron.

Meulin is tucked up quiet still, asleep and your eyes are hazy and your fronds sweep the plateau dizzily as you come to your tools. But you manage what you have to do. You sear and stitch, and you vomit purple into the sink and then you make tidy all up after yourself. So that your flush may not be discomfited by the afterbirth of your agonies. She’s motherfucking sorrowful enough when she discovers what you’ve done. How you’ve atoned. Tis too late, tis done and there ain’t naught either of you could do to change a thing and yet - you feel no regret. The rightfulness of it beats in you, like the waves, like surf. Inexorable, inescapable and utterly natural.

When it comes to betraying Mituna, to ripping his pan out of his cranularcase and fucking everything up to mirthful hell, it’s so much more motherfucking _easy_.

You guess, like all things, betrayal comes more simply with time.

When you smile, it aches, the stitches pull. But you are exactly what is required to serve the Lord, and you are knowing of the fact that every movement of your walking fronds has been required for you to reach this point. This way. The only way it could motherfucking go. There is time yet, and time and time. But what is needed, in terms of foundation - _well_. That is motherfucking _set_ , and there is no changing it.

You are willing. You are waiting. And by every ounce of dishonoured scripture, you are MOTHERFUCKING ready.


End file.
